make me a bird
by nuclearer
Summary: Picks up where season one leaves off: Peter and Roman have both gone their separate ways. However, in the repercussions of both Letha's death and Roman's self-discovery, everything has changed. /Rated "M" for heavy language and sexual vampiric fetishes./
1. intro: peter

They were standing in a black room, with no ceiling and no floor. There was no light apart from the warming glow of her face, flickering like a candle under her wild blonde hair. She reached out, arms spread open into a giant bear hug, waiting to envelope his frame. She stood there frozen like this, and he tried to run to her. He tried to run and sprint and jump and walk, but every footstep sent her another inch backwards. She was falling from him as he lunged towards her, in a paradox of speed and humanity. He loved her, with all of his heart. He never stopped loving her, no matter how far away she was.

Xxx

The visions never really left him; they just got quieter for a while. They were like the crunch of the grass underneath his boots: a constant, but so ubiquitous that they had synchronized with his own heartbeat. The two entities, her whisper and his body, had merged into one indefinite whole. They were connected, she and him, and yet he had never felt so alone.

Peter Rumanek let his spidery fingers run down his hair fiery brown hair. He had missed that feeling, the feeling of hair on a human head. It was shorter now, of course, but it still felt nice. Hair was Peter's security blanket, the same way his mother's security blanket was his Peter.

His mother was all he had left.

_Letha-_

_No!_ Peter shook his head violently, shaking the thought from his mind. It was physically unbearable for him to think of her: her porcelain face, her doll eyes, and… no. Peter had promised himself that he wouldn't think of her. He wouldn't think of any of them anymore: not Christina, not Olivia, not Clementine, and especially not…

He couldn't do it. He couldn't dare to even think of his name. Every once in a while, he saw his face in a dream, blurred from the edges like a silent vignette. He seemed different in the dreams: stronger, more mature, less dependent. If Peter could tell all of that from his face, there was no way he could even begin to gage what had happened to… him… in real life.

Fuck, he was thinking about them again. He needed to stop thinking so much about the goddamn Godfreys. Peter had left Hemlock Grove for a reason: it had broken him. The crumbling stone buildings and spiced evergreen forests had broken him, Peter Rumanek, in a single snap of their iron jaws. They had torn his heart from his chest and his face from his bones, only to be glued back together into a hollow shell.

Oh, how he missed her. _Letha Letha Letha. _

Peter had needed to move on, hadn't he? He had needed to escape the choking grip of his past and find freedom from his self-loathing: he needed to get away. And so, Peter did. Peter ran away as far and as fast as he could: to an empty town in Northern California, as far away as he could get. Linda liked it in California; it made her feel like Queen of the Fucking Universe, she said. It was full of woods and people and hospitality. It was a good place.

Peter tried to redeem himself through pattern. Every day it was the same routine: smoke a cig, go to town, read the newspaper, come back home, take a nap, take a jog, talk to Linda, go to bed. It was ridiculous, really, how boring Peter's life had become, but there wasn't much life left in him. It had all been sucked out with Letha's soul on that cold day last year.

Every night she haunted his dreams, with her unattainable frozen self. She would stand there motionless as he ran towards her, spinning round and round with the clockwork of the sun. He hated to sleep, but it was all he had left. It was the closest they could ever be to one-another.

"Peter."

Morning.

Linda tapped Peter on the back. He lay limp on the torn sofa in their new rotting mobile home, with his legs splayed out and his fingers still in his hair. "Peter, you're spacing out again. Wake up, it's almost eleven."

Peter rolled onto his stomach and let out a hum. "I'm not spacing out, I'm just marking my space." He buried his fingernails into his scalp and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, I'm not in the mood to talk right now."

"No, Peter." Linda slapped her son on the back, pressing him just hard enough to make him writhe in a split second of pain. "You've gotta get up. There's something outside."

Peter rolled his eyes. "It's a squirrel, Mom. Now go away."

"It's not a squirrel." Linda's eyes narrowed and fixated on her son with a sense of frantic urgency. "Peter, I hear leaves rustling. There's something fighting out there."

"Squirrels."

"Fucking listen to the window, Peter."

Peter rolled off the couch and lazily dragged his chilled feet to the window. He felt groggy and exhausted, but he would rather prove Linda wrong than listen to her bicker with him for another fifteen minutes. Hemlock Grove had changed Linda, too. It had made her more anxious; it had weakened her to a set of bones.

Outside the window, the forest looked as it had for the past year. There were thick, burly trees twisting around the roots of a lush carpet of grass. It was completely silent except for the lone chirp of a bird from high above.

"Listen."

It took him a minute, but at last, Peter heard it. There was grunting and kicking and wrestling and pushing, all muted by the steady breath of what seemed to be a man.

Suddenly, the sounds came to a halt. The forest was silent, except for the bird. It was also empty.

Peter gently thrust open the door to he and Linda's mobile home and croaked, "Who's there?" to the emptiness the engulfed him, as if to be polite to his mother's own nervousness. "Go the fuck away!" (He couldn't help it: he just wanted to get some rest.)

Linda stood behind Peter, investigating. She pushed through him and walked into the green, motioning for him to come follow her. "Follow me, Peter. Something's up."

Peter shrugged and followed her, eyes shifting closed with the brightness of the sun. He cupped his palms over his fore brow to try and block it out, but it still managed to invade his field of vision. Peter just wanted to sleep, but he had to reassure her nothing was wrong, and then go back to bed. It was a Saturday, for crying out loud, but he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't follow her.

Linda didn't ask for much, so when she asked, it was an order.

She walked with a ferocity and sureness that Peter hadn't seen since Hemlock Grove. It was as if she knew something was out there: she knew something had happened, something important, even if it was just a mumble from outside their window.

"Mom, honestly. Can we just go back? There's nothing here."

"There is," she muttered, under her breath. "I can feel it. I've never felt so sure about something in all of my life."

Peter sighed, yet again. It felt so wonderful to lie down on a sofa and do nothing, to let the pillow hit one's ear like a dam. If he closed his eyes again, he'd see her. He'd see her heavy lips and cheekbones and oh, that hair. Maybe, if he closed his eyes again, he'd finally reach her. He'd hug her and kiss her and fuck her and marry her and grow old with her, all in the course of a one-hour-dream. It would be so magical, even to pretend that he was with her again.

"Peter." Linda stopped walking.

Except, it was less of a "stop". It was more of a jolt, as if she had hit an invisible brick wall headfirst.

"Mom, what the-"

She stopped, and she pointed.

She had been walking towards something the whole time, something that Peter had been too dazed to notice.

From the branch of a tree not 500 meters from their house, a man hang limp from a string. His face was anonymous: Peter had never seen it before, but his lips were blue and his eyes were gray with the echo of death. He was wearing leather saddle shoes and khaki pants: hemmed, pleated, and pressed. His pink oxford shirt was torn down the middle, revealing a pale stomach adorned in a dripping red message.

A blade had etched a simple symbol into the flesh, still hot with fresh blood. The symbol was all too familiar to Peter: a snake… a snake… a snake…

He stumbled back, his mind now buzzing with… well, he wasn't sure how to describe it. It was a mixture of fear, excitement, and confusion.

"R.G.," it read below the snake.

RG.

This is not Peter's story. This is Roman's.


	2. roman

One year ago.

He stands there, sinking into his leather loafers and smiling like the fucking king of England. It's the smile that Letha loved so much: lips pressed together, with thick dimples and those deliciously sunken eyes. He was never much of a smiler, Roman Godfrey. He preferred to purse his lips over one another, or let them roll loosely the tip of his thumb in contemplation. When he did smile, it was always in complete honesty. He was always truly happy when he smiled.

The Godfrey household was cold, but Roman liked it that way. He liked the cold; he liked the sensation of goosebumps slicking down his neck in contrast to the flick of his lighter. He was quite fond of opposites.

"Roman."

It was Norman, that little bitch, and his eyes were wet. His grayed hands clasped together, as he tried to maintain a certain professionalism for the matter at hand: Olivia. "Roman, what happened?"

Roman's smile, the close-lipped thick-dimpled smile, only got larger. He was never a very good actor: in eighth grade, he had received a C in English for his ill-fated portrayal of Parisin _Romeo and Juliet. _It wasn't his fault, of course: he couldn't fucking emotionally connect with the character, Paris. Paris was the loser, and Roman would never admit defeat: he was the fucked up reject of fucking Juliet. Sure, they were a part of the same house and all, but she fucking turned him down. She turned down his illustriousness and power for that fucking idiot, Romeo, from those fucking outsiders. She preferred the fucking rival to his own fucking self.

Romeo. Paris. Juliet.

Roman's life was a tragedy, that's for sure. No sister, no father, no mother, no friends. All he had left was his razor, his wallet, and his cigarettes.

And his daughter.

"What happened to your mother, Roman?" This time, the question was no longer a question. It was a command.

Roman leaned onto the staircase with one elbow, letting his towering body slink over it like a towel. "She's dead, clearly. Why do you have to ask me?"

He couldn't tell what Norman's eyes were saying: was he confused, or was he scared? Roman hoped he was scared. He was so used to other people fearing him only for his mother, or his money. Knowing that he had actual presence, actual potential: it made him feel good. It made him feel strong. Fear only strengthened him.

"Roman, listen. I understand if you don't want to talk about it, she's your mom and I get that. Everyone is saying it was a heart attack, I know, I know: but you and I both know that Olivia Godfrey would never let a heart attack kill her."

Roman slowly let his smile drop, and he bit his lip with a curling snarl. "How about you ask her yourself then?" That bitch wouldn't leave him alone. What was done was done, and it needed to be done. Roman had never felt so proud of something in his entire life.

"Roman, please-"

"If you need someone to fuck, how about you go back to your wife?" Roman stepped forward, lowering his brow. Norman reminded him so much of her, even though they were nothing like. His face, his gestures. Everything reminded him of her. "Get the fuck out."

"What the hell happened to Olivia, Roman?"

Roman stood there, narrowing his eyes on Norman. "I think you want to get the fuck away from here."

And in moments, he was gone.

Roman laughed and reached into his pocket. His lanky fingers picked out a cigarette, and he popped it between his teeth. He sat down on the bottom stair, staring blankly out the window. The world was a mess, but this is how it was going to have to be. He needed to make his heart steel, and the only way to make it steel was to stop caring about anyone but himself.

Every person Roman had ever cared about was gone, and for a while, it had hollowed him. There was Shelley, for one thing. From her infectious smile to her gentle hands, Shelley had always served as a constant for Roman. She kept him sane, keeping him locked away from the monster inside.

Then, there was Letha. Oh, fucking Letha. Letha, Letha, Letha. Letha was Roman's first love: not his first lover, but the first girl he ever felt genuine feelings for. He had wanted to protect her, to keep her face. There was no girl that had ever meant more to Roman than Letha, but it was Roman that killed her. Roman fucking killed her. His own fucking spawn killed her in fucking childbirth and left her fucking empty.

Of course, there was also Peter. Roman could never make up his mind about Peter Rumancek, but he always valued him as a friend. Peter had meant everything to Roman, and allowed him to truly discover the potential that was buried beneath him. He was a total dick, of course, but he was no worse than Roman, himself.

Except Roman would never have left without saying goodbye.

Roman knew, deep down, that it could never be. Godfreys always got what they wanted, but they could never keep it. Peter was too good to be true.

Most days, Roman wished he were a bird. He wished he could shrink to the size of an insignificant rock and sprout a pair of feathered wings. He wished he could fly away, far from the life he had established in Hemlock Grove. He wished he could fly to a place with Peter and Letha and Shelley, where it was just the four of them, locked away forever.

He had the baby to take care of. He couldn't leave, or he probably would have. He had the baby, and the power. He was no longer a Godfrey: Roman was THE Godfrey. He wasn't the king of England, but he would never trade his title for the world.

Was this the decision Destiny had talked about? Was this the decision: to leave or stay? It seemed pretty lame, to have caused this much drama, a simple question of leaving or staying in Hemlock Grove. Or, was it deeper than that? Was it still yet to come?

Suddenly, there was a sharp knocking on his door. "I told him to leave," muttered Roman under his breath, preparing himself to yet again convince Norman Godrey to leave him alone.

As his scarred wrist turned the metallic handle of the door, Roman instantly felt a deep hunger. A craving, really, was what he felt: and it was for something that he had craved before, but… stronger. Stronger, like him.

Roman backed away from the door, fearing this lust for… the blood of another. He knew that if he opened that door, he would give into the temptation and… well, he wasn't sure what he would do. But it wouldn't be good.

And yet, what was he scared of? Roman wanted blood. He wanted the sweet, sweet trickle of red down the back of his throat. It fueled him like a cigarette, but it was better. It was beautiful.

Fuck, Roman was done with waiting. Roman was done with being ruled by his own conscience: where had that ever gotten him? He couldn't care about anyone. He couldn't care about anything. Roman was the only person that mattered.

His wrist turned.

There was no one there.

"Come back!" he called, letting his throat croak in the wind. Roman needed to prove to himself that he had what it took: this was his test. This was Roman, testing himself, seeing if he could make it on his own. Roman was going to fucking kill a man, or woman, or whatever creature had knocked on his door. Even if it was Norman, Roman was going to kill it. Roman wanted blood.

Roman let his razor draw a line up his arms, splitting his wrists into two halves yet again. The pain pierced through his skin like a fire, and Roman ran. Roman ran and ran, right towards his car. As the engine began to purr, Roman sped right towards Hemlock Grove.

He needed the blood. It was better than any drug God could have ever thought of.

He drove and he drove and he drove into the sunshine, letting it fold over his shoulders like a cloak. He drove straight to the one person he knew would be waiting for him: that bitch, that _cunt _Ashley fucking Valentine.

The car kept purring even as he sauntered to his door, not once letting his eyes leave the pavement. When she answered, he took her to his car, offering to take her on a "drive", to which she quickly agreed.

Two days later, the streets of Hemlock Grove were littered in Missing Person signs with Ashley Valentine's porcelain face plastered all over them. When Roman looked at them, he smiled again, with that close-lipped thick-dimpled smile. It was a genuine smile, the sort of smile he would have given to Letha or Shelley or Peter. It was the type of smile he had used just two days earlier regarding his mother's death.

Roman traced the outline of his lips with the last remaining drops of Ashley Valentine's blood. It was good to be a Godfrey.

Godfreys always got what they want, even when they couldn't keep it.


End file.
